


i'm gonna love that gal

by likebrightness



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likebrightness/pseuds/likebrightness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s your specialty?”</p>
<p>“Everything, sugar,” she says, immediately breaking eye contact to laugh at herself. “But if you want something really good, I’ll make you spaghetti and meatballs so good you’ll want to kiss me!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm gonna love that gal

Angie spends the evening tugging Peggy from room to room.

“Christ, English, look at this one!” she says almost every time they go into a new room.

She’s quieter only in the library, where she lets her fingers run over the spines of books Howard’s probably never read. Peggy feels bad for thinking that about Howard, but then remembers how he called this place “barely used” and winked at Jarvis and she doesn’t feel bad anymore.

Angie drapes herself on every piece of furniture in the house and the only reason Peggy doesn’t stop her is she’s sure Jarvis has had everything extensively cleaned. That, and Angie’s rather adorable throwing herself into armchairs and across sofas, reciting lines from movies Peggy has never seen, then teasing her for not getting the references.

They reach the kitchen last, and Angie’s eyes go wider than they’ve been all night.

“The things my family could do with this kitchen!” she exclaims.

Peggy can whip up a few meals, sure, but she always trailed after her father, not her mother, learning the parts of a plane engine when other girls were learning the difference between baking powder and soda. She sends up a silent thanks for the thousandth time that her parents let her follow her interests, certain there are plenty of good female cooks who’d rather be flying planes.

“Lord knows I won’t be using it much,” Peggy says. “We should invite your family to invade it sometime.”

“Another night,” Angie beams. “Tonight, I’ll cook for you. Whaddya want, English?”

Peggy grins back at her. It’s hard to believe that this will be part of her life now, that this is  _their_ kitchen, that Angie could cook her dinner every night if she wanted.

“What’s your specialty?”

“Everything, sugar,” she says, immediately breaking eye contact to laugh at herself. “But if you want something really good, I’ll make you spaghetti and meatballs so good you’ll want to kiss me!”

She practically trips in her hurry to find utensils and ingredients.

“I don’t doubt it,” Peggy says, but Angie’s got her head so far in a cabinet she likely doesn’t hear.

Angie focuses on cooking to the point that she barely looks at Peggy. Peggy’s not upset about it—she’s getting a meal made for her, after all—but she’s a little put off, with how effervescent Angie usually is, and, indeed, has been all night. Peggy enjoys watching, though, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. She’s impressed by Angie’s cooking even before there’s any food to taste. Angie looks like a dancer, flowing movement from refrigerator to cutting board to stove, smooth and sharp with knife work, seamlessly transitioning from one task to the next. Jarvis has ensured the kitchen is well stocked, and every once in a while Angie makes a little noise of delight as she discovers something she didn’t expect. As she chops, dices, rolls, stirs, boils, Angie hums like she doesn’t mean to, occasionally cutting herself off with a glance at Peggy and a blush. Peggy swears she hears the tune of “I’m Gonna Love That Gal,” but Angie quits humming it before she’s sure.

“Where’d you learn this recipe?” Peggy asks eventually.

Angie stays focused on the meatballs she just dropped into the bubbling sauce. “My pops,” she says. “He claims it’s how he got my mom to marry him.”

“If it tastes as good as it smells, that wouldn’t surprise me,” Peggy says.

She doesn’t know if Angie’s blushing or if her cheeks are red from standing over the stove. Either way, it’s an incredibly endearing look on her. Peggy’s own face feels warm. She goes back to watching Angie without attempting conversation. Angie already looks so at home in the kitchen, Peggy can hardly believe it. She thinks you could drop her in the middle of nowhere China and she’d figure things out within hours, probably make friends with everyone she met.

“You wanna taste this for me, English?” Angie asks, holding the wooden spoon out with one hand, the other cupped underneath it to catch any drips. Her face is aimed at the floor, but her eyes are on Peggy.

Peggy swallows. Nods. She tilts her chin forward and opens her mouth. Angie feeds the sauce into her mouth and doesn’t look away the entire time. Peggy, on the other hand, has to close her eyes and moan at how good it tastes.

“Angie, that’s delicious,” she says.

Angie’s definitely blushing now, as she turns quickly back to the stove. It makes Peggy flush, too, with the implications of it. She tried keeping Angie at arm’s length, which failed spectacularly. After it did, she at least tried to ignore the feeling in her chest whenever Angie smiled at her, because she never could put her finger on how Angie felt, and anyway, losing a friend was bad enough; she didn’t want to get even closer to Angie and then lose her, too. But here they are,  _living_  together, and Peggy wonders just how this woman has managed to get through every single one of her walls. The living arrangement wasn’t intended as anything more than friends, but the way Angie’s acting, Peggy lets herself daydream for a moment about what it could be.

“Dinner is served,” Angie says, setting a plate in front of Peggy and another at the stool beside her. “I didn’t feel like going down into that creepy wine cellar—I mean, I’m sure it’s a lot of great wine but it’s _cold_  and dark and weird. I hope you’re okay with water?”

“Of course,” Peggy says. “This is going to be wonderful enough without wine.”

Angie is still standing behind the counter, right in front of Peggy. She’s twisting her hands together. She looks nervous.

“Angie, sit down and join me. You don’t have to be worried if I’ll like it—I already tried it and know it’s fantastic.”

Angie shakes her head. “No, it’s—” She stops wringing her hands, looks at the plates of food instead of at Peggy. “It’s ’cause you’re a lady, with the guys it’s easy, but with you?” She makes eye contact again. “I like you, English. And I thought with us moving in here together maybe that meant…But it’s okay if it doesn’t, that’s fine, no hard feelings, it doesn’t have to be weird or anything, I can be your friend, I’m  _good_  at being people’s friend. It’s just if you—if you wanted to be more than friends that would also be okay with me.”

“Oh, Angie.”

“I figured you probably already knew, what being a secret agent and all, you can probably spot a faker from a mile away. I wanted to say something so we weren’t dancing around it, and in case you  _didn’t_ know, well, now you do, and—” She cuts herself off as Peggy stands.

It’s three steps around the counter, then Peggy’s sliding her hand into Angie’s curls and pulling her mouth to hers. Angie makes a noise of surprise, and then Angie makes other noises and Peggy feels them everywhere. When she pulls away, Angie’s eyes stay closed for a moment. They blink open and she has the best smile Peggy has ever seen in her life.

“That would be more than okay with me, Angie,” Peggy says. Angie’s smile goes even wider.

“Okay then.” She kisses Peggy once more, quick. “Now that that’s settled, let’s eat.”

Peggy can’t help the burst of laughter. Angie gets them water, flatware and napkins, beaming the whole time. When they sit down, Angie pulls her stool close.

“Honestly, Angie, this is the best meal I’ve had in ages,” Peggy says.

Angie presses her ankle against Peggy’s. “The Martinelli family doesn’t mess around with spaghetti.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty you don’t mess around with,” Peggy says. “You should never have made this for me. Now I’m going to want home-cooked dinner every night.”

“Greedy,” Angie says, bumping her with her elbow.

“Perhaps you can teach me to cook,” Peggy says. “I’ve not had much experience.”

“We got this great kitchen, English, and now that I won’t have to work so much at the automat, we got time.”

Peggy beams, bumps her elbow back against Angie’s.

They spend the rest of the meal like that, a little talking, a lot of smiling, the occasional brush of an ankle or shoulder. By the end of it, Peggy feels like they did have wine, a bottle at least, the way her body is thrumming. She clears their plates, turns on the tap to fill up the sink with soapy water, but Angie’s hands are on her hips.

“Stop it, English,” she murmurs into Peggy’s ear, her chin tilted up to rest on her shoulder.

“You don’t want me to do the dishes?”

“I cooked, of course I want you to do the dishes. But I want you to do something else first.” She opens her mouth against Peggy’s neck and honest to God, Peggy’s knees go weak.

“What’s that?”

“ _Me_.”

Peggy turns in Angie’s arms and kisses her. The last few weeks have been so hectic, and Peggy barely feels like her life is back in her control, but this? This is hers. This is new and they’ll have so much to figure out, but this is  _hers_. She holds tight to Angie and lets everything else go.

Angie kisses like she smiles—puts her whole heart in it, knocks Peggy off her feet with the force of it. Peggy keeps up with her, matches her kiss for kiss. Angie’s hands run up and down Peggy’s back. She ducks her head, puts her lips on Peggy’s neck again.

“Angie,” Peggy breathes more than says. “Shall we take this someplace else? The house does have six bedrooms.”

“I know, English, and we’ll do this in every one, but I want you  _now_.” She splays her hands across Peggy’s back, pulls away to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peggy says.

Angie’s kisses get more frantic. She turns them around and pushes Peggy against the countertop. Her hands tug at any clothes they get ahold of. Peggy puts her own hands on Angie’s face, holds her back. She kisses her gently, then hops up onto the counter. Angie beams.

“Later I gotta see your breasts, Peggy,” she says seriously. Peggy likes the way she says her name. “But this’ll do for now.”

She goes back to kissing Peggy, a little gentler now, catches her dress at the hem and pushes it up. Peggy’s hips start jumping when Angie reaches her thighs, fingernails scraping lightly against her skin. Angie grins into her mouth.

Peggy lets her hands roam, cups Angie’s breasts, strokes along her arms. Angie’s rubbing circles over her thighs, and Peggy wants so much more. “I can’t—” she says. “I want to touch you.”

“Me first,” Angie says, finally pushing aside Peggy’s underwear.

They both groan at the contact. Peggy didn’t realize how wet she was, though it shouldn’t surprise her; dinner was basically foreplay.

Angie doesn’t take her time, and Peggy doesn’t need her to, clutching Angie’s shoulders desperately as she slides two fingers into her. Angie says her name like a prayer.

“ _Angie_ ,” Peggy says, and has absolutely nothing to follow it up.

Angie gets into a rhythm, sliding her fingers in and out and watching Peggy with pupils blown wide. Peggy just holds on, the top of Angie’s dress clenched in both fists. It’s  _easy_  and  _good_  and Peggy whines when Angie pauses and says, “Wait, wait.”

She pulls back a little—keeps her fingers inside Peggy, though—and adjusts Peggy’s leg with her other hand. She gets it between her own legs, pushing forward against it and letting out a satisfied sigh. “Better.”

Peggy kisses her.

Everything feels urgent now. Angie pumps her fingers and grinds against Peggy’s leg and Peggy’s head swims. Angie’s whole body is fever hot. Peggy feels delirious. She’s close, clenching every time Angie thrusts. When she can’t keep quiet, she pulls Angie to her, moans into her mouth.

“C’mon, Peggy, c’mon,” Angie says. She kisses her, presses their foreheads together. “For me?”

That does it. Peggy comes, head tipped back and whole body shudders, Angie’s name sneaking out through her breath. Angie tucks her head into Peggy’s neck, grinds her hips down once more, and comes, too. Peggy wishes she could see her face, but she settles for holding onto her as she shakes.

They just breathe together for a minute, Angie’s face still buried in Peggy’s neck. She pulls back eventually, gives Peggy a kiss and a smile.

“That wasn’t too shabby,” she says.

Peggy laughs. Her heart feels light. She wants to do that again. Wants to make Angie feel good. “What do you say we leave the dishes for the morning and go try out one of the bedrooms?”

“You’re something else, English,” Angie grins. She steps back and helps Peggy off the counter. With a gesture toward what might be the stairs—Peggy can’t remember, honestly, this house is huge and she’s a little distracted by the way Angie’s lips are swollen and smudged with her own red lipstick—Angie says, “Lead the way.”


End file.
